Why I Never Want to be a Mother
I never want to be a mother because I am not perfect.
I know no damn thing about cooking,
and as far as I concern, I hate doing the dishes.
I hate doing household chores -
and that my room is messy as hell.
I love solitude,
I love my quiet walks at the park of my mind,
And the way my eyes intently observe the crowd
As they go about their hectic lives.
I love reading books in a quiet, lit corner;
While sipping a hot coffee with no sugar and milk.
As I sit on the chair of my imagination,
I see the future that my mother painted for me.
I'd have children I cannot handle
For I can't even handle myself.
My baby girl's face is full of chocolate,
My son's diapers are filled with poop,
And my husband, the biggest kid of all,
Demands me to cook him some dinner.
My hands are bleeding from the cut
As the knife that I'm holding slipped off my hands.
I still haven't cooked a single dinner yet -
The husband is now yelling at me -
As he puffs his cigarette while watching the NBA.
My baby girl, now inside the fridge,
Ate the strawberry cake for her brother's birthday.
Then my mother in law arrived.
She saw how wrecked the house is.
She slapped me in the face;
Tossed my head at the kitchen sink
In her eyes, I'm a demon
As I failed to take care of her son -
The way she took care of him.
My youngest son is now crying,
As he feels uncomfortable.
The poop in his diaper is now spilling out
and spreading all over his sheet.
I was crying,
my hands were tinted with purple and deep crimson
I slumped on the floor
And let the darkness swallow me.
Now I am back to the present.
My bum still on the seat.
My hands began to quiver, ever slightly
My heartbeat quickens,
Anxiety kicking me in the shin.
Tears started falling.
No, no, that's not how I want to be,
No, no, I refuse that kind of life -
my lips mutter in loud whispers.
Thinking of what motherhood asks me to sacrifice -
It's asking me to sacrifice my freedom -
Asking me to take different roles at the same time -
To be both a servant and a nanny,
To be a doormat and child bearer,
To be a teacher, counselor, blow-up doll,
Among other things.
I will lose what's important to me -
And that is my freedom.
Marriage, to me,
Is a binding contract,
Between a slave and a master
As being a slave is what being a woman is
No, I want my freedom.
I don't want to carry a watermelon for nine months
Then go through agonizing and cow-like labor
That may last for fourteen hours.
If I'd have a child,
A daughter, for example;
What kind of mother would she see in me?
Probably, she would see a mother that is scared,
That is unsure in footing,
Is in the kind of marriage she can never escape -
For there is no divorce in this country.
I would end up scaring her
Making her think that the world is a scary place
Or that she may think this is how life supposed to be
How a woman is supposed to be -
She is supposed to be pretty and young
But as good as her husband's mother in pampering -
But what if she likes to climb trees?
Or maybe go to the deepest of forests?
or perhaps, love to surf the waves that are as tall as buildings?
She may either abandon the real person that she was,
or, like me of the present,
Would be scared, too, of the word marriage and family.
If I would have a son,
What kind of man may he end up emulating?
A man who demands to be served and pampered like most men?
Who will demand the ideal for his wife?
Who will demand the impossible?
Or a man who will end up hating women,
As he hates his own mother
Who seems to fail at everything she does?
This young boy will grow up in a family,
Where his mother is treated like a slave
While his father is sitting on comfy chair
as he watches the NBA finals on the flat screen.
It would be best not to have children.
I want my freedom.